The Sunday market manifests an erudite philosophy.

All that may be done shall be done unto your titbits.

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They shall be toasted wickedly, marinated, roasted.

Bacchanalian bits of things shall be peeled and pickled,

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Battered, steamed or fried; garnished, peppered, grated.

The texture is to be considered just as much as taste,

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Crispy, gooey, hard, releasing tart blends of smell,

Not a part from nose to tail shall ever go to waste.

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And you can but admire how deftly she is dumpling

The pork ball with sesame, trickling fish-oil over the shoal

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Of desiccated minnows while drizzling the crickets.

Delicious, unless not. Western taste-buds are easily

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Shocked – or something gets caught in the back of the throat

And you fear that it may be your tonsils you’re swallowing

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Rather than the intimate glands of some Himalayan goat.

Best of all are the dead man’s fingers, the crocodile tear shallots.

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Let the market ransack your imagination, turning

Your stomach into your very own haggis. 

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Hope that the demon’s whiskers do not bring you out in spots.